


A Baby at Wayne Manor

by Lordandempressdoodle



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Baby Tim Drake, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce Wayne Accidentally Acquires a Small Child, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, I mean he's like early 20s???, Parent Bruce Wayne, Protective Bruce Wayne, Young-ish Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordandempressdoodle/pseuds/Lordandempressdoodle
Summary: An evening pondering the future of Gotham ends up being not quite what Bruce was expecting When a heavy rainstorm brings an unlikely visitor to his door, asking for his help, Bruce worries he may be in over his head, but maybe this new (very tiny) guest will help Bruce learn more about himself along the way.---*Baby Tim ends up being babysat by his neighbor, leaving Bruce Wayne asking himself "wait, do I want kids?"
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 37
Kudos: 534





	A Baby at Wayne Manor

**Author's Note:**

> Ohmigosh hiiiiiiiiii,  
> This is my very first fic posted to this site, inspired by my very own experience babysitting a small adorable child. Y'all thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy, spread the love :)  
> -Ads

# A baby at Wayne Manor 

‘ _Typical Gotham_ ,’ Bruce Wayne thought to himself as he stared out the window at what might have been a beautiful evening sky, if not for the heavy storm that had been hanging over the city for three days now. It was so horribly dreary, and Bruce found it dampening his mood a fair amount, though he supposed it may be the lingering disappointment of stepping in mud while wearing his newest pair of Bolvaint shoes. French leather had always been his favorite, and of course the drab Gotham weather just had to go and ruin it, like it did everything else. 

Between the weather, the foreclosures, and the rapidly rising rates of crime, sometimes Bruce wondered if there was any hope for Gotham at all. This wasn’t the place that his father had built, or his grandfather, or great grandfather. There was only so much charity work he could do for the city without running into greedy organizers who wanted to keep his money for themselves, rather than give it to the children and families that needed it. Those sorts of people made his stomach turn. 

There had to be _something_ else he could do. What is it that he was missing? Who could lead Gotham to a better tomorrow?

This particular brand of existential generally wore on Alfred, so Bruce decided to have his private crisis in the study, rather than bother his hard-working butler in the kitchen while he made their dinner. He’d been so busy in his own thoughts he almost didn’t notice the brief flash of headlights passing over the study windows from the driveway. 

...odd. 

Who would be coming up to see him this time of night- and in a thunderstorm no less? Mentally, he checked through everyone that it wasn’t. Any criminals who intended to rob him should know better than to have their brights on, and his house was far too obvious for someone to have made a wrong turn. The only person he knew who would dare come visit him at his house unannounced was Lucius Fox, and on top of the fact that his friend (colleague?) wouldn’t be caught dead driving a _Prius_ , Bruce knew for a fact that Lucius was in Quebec with his daughter for the week. And besides Alfred, Lucius was the only person he really, well...knew (Christ, he needed more friends). 

Curiosity drew him out of the study, and through the library to the front door. Would whoever it was ring the bell? He waited a beat. Then another. Then there were a few raps that echoed through the entryway, three quick knocks. 

“I’ll get it Alfred.” He called loud enough to be heard from the kitchen as he cautiously approached the door. He flexed his hand into a fist, before he turned the knob, and opened. 

Standing there, about as three paces back, was a college aged girl, with dark skin and green eyes that glimmered, when she turned around to face him. It was, in all honesty, not what he had been expecting. Over her shoulder was a large bag, and she was wearing a grey hoodie soaked with rain and clutched a tiny bundle to her chest. 

“Um, can I...help you?” He tried to make his voice as non-suspicious and non-  
condescending as possible. It was a delicate balance. 

The girl’s eyes went wide, and she stuttered in broken English. “Mr. Bruce? It is you?” 

“Yes? Uh, please,” he stepped back, letting the door swung inward, “come in.” He figured she wasn’t a threat, being all of what, five foot two?

The girl shuffled forward until she was barely inside the door, where she stopped. She looked beyond uncomfortable to be standing in the grand entryway, perhaps a little frightened. Of him? 

“So what can I-“

“Mr. Bruce. You are good man, yes?”

What was that accent? Something from Eastern Europe? “Uh...”

“You help children, yes? You are kind?”

Ukrainian? Romanian? Dammit. “I’d like to think I am, why? What is this about?”

The girl- Bruce should really just ask her name -trembled, her lip beginning to wobble. She sniffed and stuttered on with her story. “I am nanny to your neighbors. The Mr and Mrs Jack and Janet Drakes.” Slovakia? “I have been left to care for their son while they’re out of country.” 

She was crying now. The mascara smudged under her eyes was only made worse with her pitiful sobs. Bruce, being the awkward tree branch that he was could only stand there and watch this woman have a breakdown. 

“But sir, you see, my mother is sick. Dying at home in Bulgaria!” Bulgaria! That’s it. “The doctors-“ sniff “-the doctors they say she only has few days!” 

For the life of him, Bruce couldn’t fathom why she was telling _him_ this, why she was even here. He’d met Jack and Janet Drake only a few times at events, galas, that sort of thing, though he’d not talked with them for more than five minutes at a time. They were archeologists, he remembered, but he didn’t know they’d ever had a son. Of course, they were gone from there large (and frankly quite ugly) house most of the year. In all honesty he couldn’t see their lifestyle lending itself to raising a child. Thus, the nanny, he supposed. And now she was here- oh. _Oh_.

Shit. 

“And you want to go to Bulgaria to visit her, that’s what you’re saying.” He’d spoken a little too forcefully, as she shrank back from him ever so slightly. 

“Sir, I try to call the housekeeper, but she won’t answer. I cannot call Mr or Ms Drake, because they are busy in Venezuela and do not pick up.” Did the Drakes really not have any backup for when they left their _child_ for a different country? “I cannot take child with me; I would be charged with kidnap.” 

In all likelihood the Drakes might not even find out if she did, but Bruce wasn’t about to suggest bringing a child on an international flight to visit a very sick woman. 

“Please Mr. Bruce, sir. Might you care for the child while I go?”

Uhhhhhhhhhh. “Surely there must be someone- “

She shook her head, the tears welling up. “No there is no one else. I tried call twenty people, they all say no. Please, sir, you are good man. You take good care of him.”

Well...what could he say to that? Here was a woman, begging for his help. To take care of a forgotten child so this girl could see her mother one more time. 

_What Bruce wouldn’t give to have that chance_.

He took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll take him.” What’s the worst that could happen, right? “Uh. Where is he?”

The girl looked suddenly as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “I knew I was right. Sir, you are good man. The child is just here.”

With that, she unzipped her- slightly dryer- hoodie to reveal the tiniest infant Bruce had ever seen, there curled against her tank top. The heavy bag she was carrying slid off her shoulder with a thump. 

“I have all his supplies and dinner, and his favorite blanket.” She pulled her jacket all the way open with one hand, and then, ever so carefully, extracted the infant from her chest, holding him out so Bruce could take him. 

At the very first touch of the fragile body, Bruce’s brain just about short-circuited. What was he doing?! He didn’t know the first thing about caring for children, let alone one so small and, well, _new_. The girl leaned in, sniffing, petting his little head, murmuring sweet words in what could only be Bulgarian. Placing a single kiss on the top of his head, the girl leaned back and zipped up her hoodie. 

“I can never thank you enough, Mr. Bruce.” Her tone was serious as her gaze. Bruce could tell she meant every word. “I go now.”

She turned to walk back out the door, “Wait! Uh. What is your name?” It was about time he asked. 

“I am Tatya.”

“And the boy?”

She grinned at him. Bruce could tell that she cared very much for the tiny infant. “He is Timothy Jackson Drake.” 

  
\-----------  


Once Tatya had left for the airport, Bruce stood there for a full minute adjusting to the strange sensation of holding a delicate life in his hands. Tim- as he decided to call him -was so warm, and Bruce could feel his fragile rib cage expand and contract with each tiny breath. He found himself filled with the instinct to protect, at all costs. Strange. When he looked down he saw sleepy blue eyes, the shade of a summer sky (what can I say, fatherhood makes him poetic), tinged with a hint of unrestrained curiosity. 

“Hi there, baby Tim, my names Bruce. I’m going to take good care of you.” The sleepy eyes blinked once, and Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “You want to go meet Alfred?”

He was really doing this then. He carried the precious package all the way to the kitchen, taking each step slowly and carefully, lest he trip and fall. Sounds of dishes and the of smell of searing vegetables wafted through the double archway, where Bruce stepped through. Alfred was just pouring the contents of one pan onto an everyday white serving dish. Even with his back to him, Alfred had sensed Bruce come in, it was one of his many superpowers. 

“Master Bruce, might I inquire who was at the door during such a storm?”

“Yeah well about that..”

Picking up on Bruce’s hesitation, Alfred pauses what he was doing to turn around. “Oh my...that’s- “

“A baby. Yes.”

A strange look passed over Alfred’s face. “Master Bruce! It’s not- “

“What? No, Alfred it’s- ugh. This is Timothy Drake. He lives next door…apparently,” something about saying it out loud deflated him a little. It sent Bruce on a thought trail divulging the Drakes’ actions as parents. “Jack and Janet are in Venezuela, and the Nanny had a very important /international/ family emergency.” 

Alfred bristled. “You mean this boy’s parents left the country without him? But he’s, what, one? Two months?” Baffled, would be one way to describe the emotion creeping through Alfred’s usually impenetrable veneer of calm. Baffled and enraged. “That is simply unacceptable.”

Bruce only shrugged. “I didn’t say I agreed with their decision...” 

“I’ve a mind to ring child services.” Alfred turned back to the stove, putting his empty pan down with a little more force than what might have been necessary.

_That_ was a whole mess that Bruce did _not_ want to get involved in. Still, part of him couldn’t help but agree at the rather large red flag being frantically waved in his face. “I’m sure it won’t come to that. And the nanny- Tatya- she left us plenty of supplies.” Or he hoped there was plenty. 

With what seemed like a sigh of acceptance (well to Bruce it seemed like a sigh, to anyone else it would have been unnoticeable) Alfred set the prepared dinner in the center of the kitchen island. “Well. Let us take care of young master Timothy then.”

As it happened, Tatya had stuffed the large bag with what Bruce could only imagine as everything a baby could ever need. There was formula, diapers, a baby monitor, pacifiers, blankets. Everything. Alfred sorted it all out on the dining table (a rare exception to normalcy) while Bruce ate his dinner with one arm. In his other arm, Tim yawned and stretched and alternating between chewing on his fist and grabbing- with his slobbery hand -at Bruce’s sweater. What’s more, Bruce found himself making silly faces down at him, more than he actual fed himself. It was, admittedly, rather a ‘unlike him’ thing to do, but something about the way Tim giggled at him in reaction made him do it over and over again. 

As he went along, Alfred instructed Bruce on the purpose of everything in the bag. Most things were self-explanatory, though some were less so. It was a good thing that Alfred knew what he was doing, because Bruce certainly didn’t. Not when Tim’s face crumpled suddenly, and he began to wail. Bruce’s first reaction was to panic, fearing he’d hurt the little guy somehow. Even his silly faces weren’t working! 

“I suspect, master Bruce,” Alfred appeared next to him holding out a bottle sloshing with formula mixed with water, “that master Tim might be hungry.”

“When did you- never mind.” He took the bottle- ew it was warm -and held it to Tim’s screaming mouth. Almost instantaneously the wailing ceased, and Bruce sighed in relief. He knew babies were loud, but sheesh. “Hm.” 

About halfway through the bottle, Tim’s eyes began to drift closed. He’d open them at any sound, or movement, but it was clear that the infant was fighting a losing battle. Eventually, sleep overcame him, and the last dregs if formula dribbled down his little chin. Bruce handed the empty bottle off. Was that it then? 

“Now master Bruce, will you be burping him or shall I?”

What now?

  
\------------  


The end of the night found Bruce dozing on the library sofa, with a bathed and changed baby Tim asleep on his chest, fist in his mouth, wearing what was frankly the most adorable footie onesie Bruce had ever seen. According to Alfred, Tim was one of the most easy-going babies he’d ever encountered, though Bruce found that hard to believe. Though it could be said that Tim really cried very little and seemed to have a generally sweet demeanor. 

Tim liked Alfred very much, but he liked Bruce even more, much to Bruce’s utter joy. Bruce couldn’t explain the feeling of seeing such a tiny human trusting him so implicitly. Of the chubby little hand wrapped around his finger. Or the incessant need Bruce suddenly had to rub his back or stroke his thin baby hair. 

He had, of course, when Alfred wasn’t looking, kissed the top of Tim’s soft head several times, only to find that he liked doing that very much. A small expression of love to remind baby Tim that he was safe and well looked after. 

They’d pulled down Bruce’s old crib from the attic and put it in his room before Alfred had gone to bed. It was a very old crib, but still in good shape. But when Bruce finally went upstairs to get some much-needed rest, he found himself very much reluctant to put Tim down. 

So, for several hours at least, Bruce held tiny baby Tim in his arms, kissing his head, rubbing his back, and stroking his hair. He lay there, promising himself, promising _Tim_ , that he would always be there to protect him. Even when Tim had to go back to parents who didn’t deserve him. Even if Bruce had to watch him grow up from the background. 

Because Tim represented the good in Gotham city. The light, the hope, the future. The promise of a better tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you love baby Tim with #dad bruce as much as I do!!!


End file.
